Under Pressure
by Samhuinn
Summary: A young tauren, in proving himself for sacred tribal rituals, ends up losing himself in the harpy's screech.


No matter what, Samhuinn could not admit he was nervous.

He was not scared, though all of his elders murmured to each other in thinly veiled whispers that he was frightened as a prairie dog in a plainstalker's playpen. He was not confused, for his parents had been telling him since the spring blooms how to go about this task. He was certainly not too young, for half of his peers had already successfully completed their adulthood rites and, in their ways, grew from calves to become the bulls and does to wander the plains for their remaining years.

Given the circumstances of his induction into the Greytail tribe, Samhuinn was allowed leisure in many of the cultural traditions the tribe held. He was not always expected to sing and dance and partake of feasts, though they surely welcomed him when he came. This one task, however, was not one that could be overlooked. The slaying of a harpy so as to prepare a tail of her grey feathers was the most sacred of rites the little community withheld, and the elders would not readily tolerate failure of this dangerous tradition.

A single harpy was not by her lonesome a fiercesome creature. Some were capable of basic magicks, others had some skill with a bow, but most preferred to launch their skinny, greasy bodies haphazardly into the fray, shrieking and squealing in horrid screeches. They rarely if ever did scream for help, for harpies were a prideful and headstrong bunch. Moreso than that, however, they were a hungry bunch, and a screaming harpy usually indicated a nearby dinner. A tauren, then, had to use every attribute he had been taught, from patience to subtlety to strength to wisdom to ingenuity, to ensure that he would be able to defeat a harpy without alerting her kin. There was only one rule: that a youth would perform this task alone.

His face was smeared with mud to conceal himself against a rock. Samhuinn waited, hunched with his back lining the boulder, face turned as he investigated for signs of a harpy's proximity. Samhuinn was not particularly adept at any physical qualities, but a keen awareness to his surroundings was an attribute only his parents could fully appreciate. He knew what he was waiting for.

Samhuinn was not afraid of failure, neither of the disappointment of his tribe nor of his death. He was afraid of killing. Harpies were foul and disgusting creatures, but the tauren could find no reason to wish to cause one needless harm. In preparation for this event, he had stolen the night before some poison-tipped arrows designed for the sedation, but not the death, of the domesticated kodo and wolves used by the tribe. Samhuinn had no skill with a bow, but he was fairly certain he could fire an arrow at the harpy and clip her in an area that would not cause her to be killed, even if it were painful. While she was unconscious, he would bandage her arrow wound, remove a bundle of her feathers, and pray to the Earthmother they would accept it for his ceremony.

He did not think to look up. Though harpy nests were occasionally high in the trees, he had scoured the forest top and found nothing resembling a home, and he was certain one of the creatures would not be able to fly even a short distance so high up without a period of rest. A streak of white and blue flashed down from the heavens, and as a shock ripped through the tauren's body, he ducked to one side, a howl of pain escaping his throat as thick claws gashed along his arm. He leapt up to his hooves to stare into the face of a hideous young woman with dirty, greasy grey feathers sprawling all over her body, her bird-like talons gripping the rock Samhuinn had been leaning against. A snarl became a shriek as she propelled herself forward, contacting only air as the bull stepped aside, his mind a swirl of confusion.

How she managed to sneak up on him was not something he could consider at this moment. What mattered was that she floated there before him, her scratchy voice howling to the sky. If she was not detained quickly, he would be swarmed. As she swooped past, he lashed out to grab her by the neck, but mistimed and stumbled forward. She aimed a kick backwards at his face that only nicked his ear as he doubled backwards, struggling to get some distance.

Three times he attempted to nock an arrow, but the harpy was tiredless in her full-body rushes, and she did not grant him the chance. He stepped aside to avoid her sweeping strikes, but she was very nimble and he, bulky. She smacked him in the face following the third attempt, and as he reared back, a memory ripped through his mind. It was a thought long since past of a little tauren gripping an axe, swinging at a much larger entity, a figure that would smack him vigorously upside the head each time he missed. He whipped his head up to her, his teeth grit, a newfound inspiration surging through every muscle of his young body. He thrust the bow aside and brandished the arrow with both hands. He was breathing for air heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and yet she seemed effortless as she darted through the air, her screams and cries not letting up. Dark hair draped over his eyes as the world fell into place. His body tensed in anticipation.

She swept at him, and he feigned to the right. As he let her body swim past, he snatched the arrow up and brought it crashing down upon her body, aiming for her upper back. He had not expected her to twirl in midair, perhaps to kick him in the face, and his dark eyebrows narrowed as the poison-tipped arrow penetrated her breast, splitting her heart as the tip ruptured through her sternum. He knocked her out of the air and onto the ground, where she tumbled without life. Her screeches hit a zenith before shattering into silence. He snatched the bloody arrow from her body as she rolled across the ground, and with uncanny precision, he flicked it at her face, snorting as it landed directly between her eyes.

Swiftly, he stepped up to her body, which did not quiver and did not breathe. He smashed her ankles into pulp with one hoof as the other swirled in a semi-circle, tearing off a chunk of the harpy's thigh in an array of blood with a powerful kick. He was immediately upon her, his eyes wide with rage, his teeth gnashed as he growled in his chest, pounding her body into the mud until the face was no longer recognizable. His hands tore at her chest, ripping the skin from her body. With one long motion, he snatched many bloodstained feathers of the creature's coat and stuffed them into his pocket, and stood back up. Blood and dirt caked the brown furs of his face as he looked down at the remnants of his foe, realizing to himself with a manic pleasure how much he had enjoyed that. He crushed her remaining talon with a shiver of enjoyment. His task complete, he turned and marched from the forest. If any harpies were watching, they did not dare pursue.

He returned home automatically. His legs and arms moved as though propelled by an outside force. It had not been an easy walk. As he approached the Greytail encampment, some of the younger calves of the tribe gasped and cheered at his dirtied face, crying, "He did it, he did it! The scaredy lion did it!" The elders looked over his blood-soaked fur and clothing with a marvelous wonder, though any who enquired to him were not met with any form of reply. His eyes were wide as though terrified and his lips trembled, yet his pace was brisk as he made way through the large camp.

His mother and father waited anxiously outside of his tent. Both knew that their adopted son was not the greatest hunter in the tribe, but they had enough faith in him to know that this task would not prove too much for him. Neither parent could deny their relief when they saw him from a distance, his distinct black horns and timid walk, head low, telltale signs of his approach. His mother started toward him, but came to a dead stop as she noticed his condition. Only once Samhuinn stood in front of her did he look up, peering into her eyes with a look hinting on the verge of breakdown. He did not cry. He removed the greased and muddy feathers from his pocket and handed them to his mother, and whispered, "... My feathers." He nodded once to his father and stepped away from the tent, disappearing off into the fields, leaving a smattering of wide-eyed, shocked, and perplexed tauren faces behind him.

He was the only tauren in the tribe to not attend his own celebrational feast. After the meal, his parents went home to find him huddled up on his sleeping sheet, his eyes squeezed shut, his face streaked with tears drenched in brown and red.


End file.
